


This Is My Story

by Invader_FanGirl



Category: The Stanley Parable
Genre: Ahhh call this an apology for not updating for three years?? aaaahhhahah, Amnesia, Angst, Because then I'd spoil some things! And that's no fun, Blood, But this time will be better!!!!, Crying, Dark, Friendship, Gen, Happy 4/27, Hurt and comfort, I mean if I manage to actually write the chapters ahahahah, Injury, Light Swearing, Sad, Tags will be added later as the story progresses, We all like it when The Narrator suffers, characters will get beat up I will tell you that my friends, i am so sorry guys, long fic, minor torture, probably...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 00:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14437401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invader_FanGirl/pseuds/Invader_FanGirl
Summary: "I am writing this all down so that I do not forget. So that "They" won't make me forget... what had happened to me... and why I am here."[A revised and updated version, moved over from Fanfiction.net!]





	This Is My Story

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, Ao3! Invader FanGirl here!
> 
> Uh... how do I explain myself. Um.
> 
> Well! Life has gotten in the way of me writing the story, and, well, since then I've improved in writing! That's why I'm writing this whole story over again from the beginning. Because I simply cannot stand to look at my old writing, its atrocious!
> 
> But to the point, I do intend on finishing this story one way or another. It honestly bugs me constantly that I've gotten the ENTIRE outline of the story planned out, from start to finish, and all I need to do is write the prose. Its the little details that get me, really.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the revision of "This Is My Story" just as much, and perhaps more, than the first version! And if you're new to this journey, then welcome! I promise you're in for a treat!
> 
> And before I forget, here's the video that I referenced to write this fanfic: https://vimeo.com/127964747
> 
> Now, let's begin again...
> 
> ...(And happy 4/27!)

He was driving home from work, late at night, as usual. He had left his minimum-wage job at 10:02 PM. He hated working from eight in the morning until then, all for small scraps of money. Every single day, for, what, four years now? Or… was it twice that much? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.

Life simply breezed by him, and he did nothing but sit in a daze at his job and allow himself to simply exist. Get up, get dressed, leave for work, come home, sleep, repeat. Did he forget to eat again? Oh, that’s a shame.

What he _did_ remember, was when life was... not this way... back then…

Christ, he was so tired he was getting sad again. It was now close to midnight. He was exhausted and worn out from working, and it was causing his mind to drift. But who could blame him.

He wasn’t much. Of a person, of a character, or of a human being in general. These days, he was a very lonely man. No family to speak of, his friends had moved on and gotten stable lives, and he hasn't gotten much social contact in years. Such inexperience meant that he couldn’t hold any sort of relationship -- platonic or romantic -- for more than a few days.

Other characteristics of this poor man’s life? Oh, let’s see…

He had no special skills, as he had dropped out of school and his parents refused to help put his life back together (hence the absence of family now). He frequently forgets to take care of himself, as he forgets to eat, and doesn’t sleep very much. He has very obvious signs of a mental illness, perhaps depression or insomnia, but he doesn’t have the money to go to the doctor and check. His wife, whom he had been blessed with from the gracious heavens years ago upon his truly miserable life, had died from an illness about a decade ago. And his daughter…

_...his… daughter…_

Coming to his senses, he narrowly steered clear of another driver, who honked his horn angrily at the man as he passed. Quickly, he swiped his sleeve across his eyes. Now is not the time for this! Goodness, he almost _died!_

…

_...He almost… just like…_

He vaguely felt his eyes water once again. Would it matter if he did? Would anyone truly care if he was gone?

He was distracted again. He wasn’t focused on the road anymore.

_What would change if he was to disappear?_

Time seemed to slow.

_What value did he have to his life? To his name?_

He bowed his head, and that was enough.

_His worthless name, just like him, it was--_

There was a loud crash. His ears were ringing. He saw red, and then nothing.

* * *

 Images flashed in his sight. The man concentrated. No, wait, they were more than mere pictures: these were _memories._ People he once knew, befriended, loved, or hated cycled before his eyes. Places he could scarcely remember, as well as ones he frequented, colors, lights, sounds, everything and anything he had ever experienced ran through his vision.

At one point he was looking out into his neighborhood from his porch, at his childhood home. Another scene showed him at a beach. Voices, ambience, all so very, very loud. Suddenly, the memories faded to black, and the sound faded. A ball of light appeared in the center of his vision.

The man tried moving towards it, finding then that he couldn't move. This worried him. It felt as though he were in a dream now, because he didn’t seem to register having any sort of physical form. Something like the sound of a radio frequency tuning was heard, and then his view changed.

He was in a darkly colored area, appearing like some kind of ruins. It was well lit, and the “room” he had been placed in, if he could even call it that, seemed to stretch out for infinity before him. Strange human-like structures decorated the walls, large in size. He couldn’t quite make out the specific details of their appearance. He was on a stone platform, facing a…

...well, okay, he had been trying not to look at it for a while now, as it was rather unnerving. It was a structure with several, disturbing masks, mounted on poles that extended outwards. It, too, seemed old like the rest of the ruins he was in. The mask facing him was white, and portrayed a crude, young face. It stared ominously at the man. The man could only stare back, for he could not move.

 **"Welcome to death."** It suddenly said, its voice sounding artificial. The machine turned to its right, and a new mask was now in front. This one looked like the last mask, but more feminine, indicated with its painted red lips.

 **"Please verbalize all responses through the monitor provided for you."** It spoke with a female voice, which sounded more fake than the last mask.

A moment of silence passed, before the man came to his senses and realized. Wait, he could communicate in this state? He couldn’t move, so how could that be possible? And what monitor was it talking about?

 _“Where am I?”_ He automatically asked. It was a question that plagued him since he had appeared in this strange place. He hadn’t meant to do that. His voice sounded strange, like he was talking through a speaker. Maybe he was stuck in a machine?

The strange structure in front of him turned to another mask, this one appearing thin and of old age. **"You have died.”** It responded with the voice of the first mask. **“I am your interviewer. This is your job interview. We will hold you here until an occupation suited for you is found."**

If he could, the man would have widened his eyes. He had actually died?! He didn’t mean to do that, that was the exhaustion talking! The stress! The depression! He was having a moment, he didn’t mean to actually stop living!

The man began to panic. _"I-I-I-want to go b-back-! I don't want to- I-I don't want to be d-dead!"_ His voice repeated and glitched itself, as if the monitor he was speaking on broke under massive amounts of emotion.

 **"I'm sorry you feel this way, but that’s not my decision. I am just the interviewer."** The mask answered, emotionless. And the man felt a little stupid. Of course. This was a machine, how could it feel any pity for him. But it did leave him to wonder...

_"Who's decision is it?"_

**_“They_ decided that.”** The Interviewer replied.

If he could he would have blinked. The way that The Interviewer had said it, unnerved the man. What was that supposed to mean?

 _“Wh-who are th-they?”_ He asked, voice glitching with the amount of confusion he was experiencing.

The Interviewer’s mask tilted up with a creak, and gazed at something above the man. This made the man even more confused; what was it looking at? After a moment of silence, it answered, **“It is a pointless question.”**

That didn’t help matters at all. What was he to do now?! The man was now terrified. If he was dead, then he didn't want to spend his afterlife here! Being unable to move, talking to creepy monstrosities like these, and working under some mysterious being he didn’t know of? Who could even imagine what the job was? He began to protest at the situation.

 _"I-I-I-d-d-on't want to- I w-want to- b-be dea- go ba-ack- I don't want a job- p-please let me le-eave-!"_ His voice glitched and repeated itself even more, reacting to the large jumble of fear, paranoia, anxiety, confusion, and frustration.

 **"You don't understand."** The machine said coldly, before spinning again to a different mask: the first one. **"We must begin."**

At that, the man gave up. He was pleading to a machine, what chance did he have. And it wasn’t as if he could do anything else, he apparently can’t do anything more than talk. Might as well see where this was heading.

After a pause, the first question was asked.

**"Who… is Erica Moore?"**

The question caught the man by surprise. He felt the vague sensation of some liquid welling up in his eyes. Not this again. Trying to get this over with, he answered. _“She was my daughter.”_

The Interviewer continued, **"Did Erica Moore commit suicide on November 10th, 2013?"**

The man felt something drip down his phantom face. He couldn’t move what arms he might have had to mop up the tears. He wasn’t ready for this, he would never be ready for this, no matter how long he would have lived: to face this reality. Despite the possible risks, he tried to change the subject.

_"I d-do n-not want t-to talk about my daught-ter."_

The machine was not moved. **"Please answer the question."**

 _"I S-SAID I D-D-DO NOT WANT TO T-TALK ABOUT M-MY DAUGHTER!"_ He yelled, the force of his emotions altering the pitch of his voice and distorting it as he did. He can’t do this.

**“Please answer the question.”**

Painful memories flooded his head: the crying, the attempts to help, the visits, the words he hoped would bring any sort of hope, the desperation, the stress, the hopelessness, the failure, the _failure, the FAILURE._

 _"I didn't know what was going to happen- I should have said something to her- please don't ask me any more questions about my daughter-- I WANT TO LEAVE NOW!"_ The monitor he spoke on could not take in such a rush of panic, sentences starting and stopping, repeating and blurring together, it was almost incomprehensible.

The Interviewer promptly changed to the female voiced mask. **"I have disabled open response format. Please use only 'yes' or 'no' responses.”** It spoke rather harshly. **“Did Erica Moore commit suicide on November 10th, 2013?"**

The man tried to speak, to say anything but the answer, but nothing came from his monitor.

_“...”_

The machine spun to a creepier mask, darker colored, rounder, and decorated with intricate carvings lacing its form. Its eyes had blacked scaleras with glowing blue irises, and had hyper-realistic teeth covered in red liquid.

 **"I am sending a small amount of pain into your nervous system. The pain will increase until you answer me. Did Erica Moore commit suicide on November 10th, 2013?"** It tried once more.

The man felt a small pinch. After a few seconds, the pinch started to grow in intensity, spreading to the whole of his being. Every second of silence made the pain grow larger, until it started to sting, and then, to burn agonizingly. He still didn’t want to answer, however, even through the pain, and could only repeat clips of things he had already said into the monitor, as if the glitching in the monitor was a part of him.

_"Idon'twanttopleaseletmeleaveIdon'twantajobIwanttoleaveno-!"_

The pain at this point was becoming unbearable now, he could feel it tearing his soul to shreds from the inside out, lacerating, maiming, burning up, it hurts, iT HURTS **IT HURTS--- _MAKE IT STOP--!_**

_"--YESIdonotwantto-YES-YES-YES-YES-YES-YES-YES-!"_

The mask looked up, almost eagerly, once finally given a proper response. "Did you leave Erica Moore unattended after you had an argument with her?"

_**I͌͆ͦ̉̓̋̔͘T̻̖̬͇͋ͩͯ̇̿ͤ ̫̖̳̞̹͑͛̓̉̉͛̄H͙͎̦̭̞͙͋͡U͓̪͖̚͡R͘T͓̪̭͍̖͋̈̋͊ͮͅͅS̥̫͙͎̞̗̟ ͍̻̦̂ͥ͐ͫ̑͆I̶͈̭̣̬̘͙̅͋T̼͇̮͝ ̥̪̝̮̬̃ͫ̊̅̈́̑͋͠ͅH̯̼̫̯̋̽̉̋̽ͯͦUͯ̿ͨ͌ͤR̲ͩ͡T̜̪͉͙̟͍Ṡ̹̆̈̚ ̤̼̱̲̪͇͡ͅI̋ͦ̉͐T̿ ̭̫̌ͮ̈́͒͜H̺̻͙U̥͉̣ͣͫR͔̹̻̩̃͑̊̔͟T͚̰̉̌ͧ̇̚S̩̦̪͈͕̤ͯͣ̏̈ͥͅ ͙̝̙͖̳͈͙H̠̭̜͈̍ͧͣ̋̀̎E̱ͫ͗̓̇ͯ̆͞ͅL̳̖̭͛͊̌̓̆P̺̱̼̯͖̹̖ͫͥ̾̿̇̄ ͕̜̝̩̩͔̣͞M̧̪͆Ę̞̥̟̪̼̣͛̌ ̙̩P̭̪͕͓͈̯L̺̳͖Ẹ̢̳ͬ̿̆̍ͭͤͥA͚̪̙̽ͩ́͋̾͟S̺͖͇̬͕͖ͪ͘E̴͇̓ͭ̀̅M̘̝̹̪͈̗̊̉͐̑ͥ̿A̬̠ͮ̒͢K͙͍E̡͇̖̭͖̫͍͍̓͒́I̞͖̥̟͈̩͑ͣ̀̒ͮ̐̃T̤͎͇͗̈́ͣ͛Sͦ̓̇͑͗ͤT̮͔̰̱ͮ͛͆͛Ő̂̈́̈́̚҉͙̻̝͎͉͖P͓͓̱̯ͤͯI̖̜̲̍ͨͅC̞̺͖̗̐̇͐ͬA̻̽N̶͉̜̟̪̓ͩ̾ͫ̍ͥ̇’͇̬̱͑̍͌ͤͦ̚͠Ṱ̺̬̦͒͋ͬ̔̇͂T̓҉̱̱̖̝A̧̭̳͇̟Ḱ̔͏̥̻̫̯ͅE̵̜͓̳̽̆́̍ͭṮͪ̏̆ͣ͒ͭH̏ͪ̋͊̈́̒ͦȊ̦̹̘ͥS̙̱̞̼͉͎͙̏̉P̰̪̪͔͍͕̦Ļ͙̳͓͇ͥ͑̃̅͌̽̊Eͪ͑ͭ͞A͎̼̬̤ͬ̅̃ͤȘ͎̦̗̰̫̞̏̌ͨȆ̯̠̞̥ͮ̍H̙̺̻͇̲̬͉̑ͦ̾E̫̦̦̙͔͎͍̽̕L͙̗̹̄ͨ͗̑ͦ̆̇P̖̥ͭ͜M͙͍̤ͬ̃̈̎ͪ͐̈́E̮̱̗̗̽̔͐̓** _

_"IshouldhavesaidIdidn'tknowwhatwasgoingtoIsaidIwanttolea-YES."_

**"Do you still blame yourself for her death?"**

The pain was now overwhelming him. He couldn't even find the strength to speak.

_**S͂̃̀̆̇҉͍̺̩ͅT̎̓ͭ̋̓ͣͫ͢Õ͚̪̭̣ͮ͋̄̕P͐̍ͪ͝P̳̰̖͚̩̦̗ͯ͗̓ĹE͚̥̠̗̹̤̺ͩẠ̧̼S̤̣̏̚É̞ͯ̌ͭͧ̿I͚̿̏̅'̩͉͖̖͔ͬ̅M̰̺̭̯̿̏͌ͧ̏B͊Ė̙̯͎̬̺̮̬G̖̅̽̓G̣̜̖̯̐͌ͨ̓̈̃ͅI̞͙̳̥͕ͫ̆Ṋ̢̣̟̮͒͂̎̎ͩG̛̩̳̬Ý̹̑͠O̸ͦ́Ū҉S̓҉̠̰TͫO̯̼͎̪̗̗̝̚P̘͇̥̗̮͖ͅȘ̜̱͍̼ͧͨ̔͆͡T̴̬̳ͮͣͫ̾̋O̝̺̰̿̋̐P͉̤̻̲̞̟͊̎͝S̶̤̝̼̞͐ͣ͑́́T̗͇̠̹̼͇̎̔̋̓ͯ̌̚Ȯ̪͕̼̲̱̯̬ͪͣ̃͆͞P͉̮̪̠͍͛̋̑ͤ͂̏Pͬͧ͂͏̘̣̳̼͍̤L̤̆̓ͪ͞E̴̞̟̞̻͒ͬ̀͒͐ͦ̚A̰̩̜̣̤̩̝ͯͤ̌Ș̰͚̈́̽̾ͩͧ͒͋Eͩ̆͌Ḭ̤ͦ̔͊̓̆T̩̫̪̗̉͑̏̈̋ͯ͝H̬͑U̡̻ͣ̈Ṙ̳̓͊̉͆̋͠T̡̥͇́͑S̟̜̍͛I̓̓̎C̞͓͍̤͉͓̈̃̋̃̋̄A͋̿̕N̷͚̦͚̝̟̘̎͋ͤ̊̂͋ͫ'̅̈́ͮ̾̔̉T̮̻̙͈̱͈̒̉́ͥ͋ͬI̬̮̮͎ͩͭͩ́͛ͣT͕̗̻̍ͦ̆̇͡H͎̱͎̻̱̩̮ͣͮ̈̈́Ṵ̙̺̜̲R̷̼͎̜̝͙ͦͮ͊̃̓̓̇T͑͒ͣS̙͕̦͔̱̹̃̋ͪ̈́Ö̭̙̣́͛̈ͪ͆͟M͔̤ͯͧͬ̎͞UͫĊ͈̞̩͖̃ͅH̛̩̼͓̮͂̍M͈͎̜̃̈́͋̎̌͐ͫA̟̩ͭ͊K̍̔̚͠E̹͋I̥ͤͯ͛̓͂̊T̞̣ͩ͢S̟̬ͬ͗͒͋͌̂͠T̓ͬͬ̒҉̘͉O̩̻̪̩͖̰͕ͩ̈́̾P̴̓̉͒ͭI̳ͭ͗̒̋ͨD͇̫͚̼̒ͨͅO̭͚̯̣̝͛ͬ̓Ņ͔̓ͧͭ'̴͍ͩT̟̳͖̬̫͊͐̍W̛͚̪̗ͬͥͦ͑̔́A̜̹̟̺̻̠ͣͫ̓̓N̮Ţ͙̖̖͉̹̏̓T͈̺̖͕͛̌̌O̝̙ͨ͠Bͧ̅̓͆̔̌̑҉̬̦͎̱̼É̩̺͕̰͍̓̑ͧ̽̕H̗̿͋̃̇́͛̇E͑R͕̲̽ͬͧ̉̎̉ͣ͝E̲̟͝Ṗ̵͓̗͍̮̥̤ͭͤ̃L̜̫͕͚ͤͯ̍̈̅Ḙ̛̗͖͍̘̮͎ͬͬͬ̑ͪͦͣA̽̆̈S̛̰̖͔̻̱̃̓Ẹ͓̦̹̽̓ͅM̖ͩ̏ͫ͗̎ͩ͋͜A͍͉̱͆̎ͯ̓̓ͤͅK̙̝̥̬̖͔̋̽̓ͣE̗̻̭̪ͨ̉̄ͯ̈́I̫͖͖̞̹̼ͯ̋̔ͬ͆ͥ͆T͎̹͚̬ͧ͒̉̽͞Ş̼̩̣ͬ̄̃̓͑̐̑T̡̟O̳̮P̲͓͌͑͆̐ͅ** _

The machine spun to the previous, not-scary mask. It spoke with a less serious tone. **"Do you still blame yourself for her death?"** It repeated.

_**\H̟̺ͯ̊͜͢E͈͂ͤL̡̝̪̩̖̄̐̈̑̽P̻͍̟̫̗ͮͮM̵͍̣ͩ̓̚͢E͙̬̱̞̳̬̝͐̊̓̓͟͞͞P̑̐͘͜ͅL̘̳̤͚̰̮̐ͭ͛É̡̫̤͉̟̪̯̤̲À̓̓́̓͛̏̿҉̜͎͓͕̺̫͎S̮̠̩͈̖ͬͧ̀̒͡Ĕ̢̗̞̒ͫ̍ͨ͋͘͢Į̱̗̼̏̈́̈̓̃͝͝ͅC͙̠ͣͥ̓̎͐̀̕A̠̝ͭ͒ͨͦ̕N̲̦̹͖̺̻̗̪͋ͅ'̱̩͓̘̺̘̪̮̓ͦ̑̄ͬͣ̎͆͝͝T͓͍̣̣̉̑͋ͤ́ͨͣD̯̦͓̖͓̺̫̳́̔͒̃ͤͩͯ̊O̮̬̦ͬ̇ͅT̗̦̪͓̝̪̹̤̄̅H͉̻̘͎͛̋̿ͭ̅I̅ͭͧ̾̋͂ͨͩ҉̖̬̜̭S̞͕͕̈ͧ̌̈̈́Ä͇̱̝̳̞̝ͧ̇͘͝N̫͔͉͚̗̜͇̞͒ͩ͠Ÿ͙̹͚̮̖͇́̓̐́ͮ͝M̨̠ͮ̈́͛ͦ̓Ő̥͈̾ͧ̉̾R̶̭̟̗̻͊̃͗̑ͬ͟E̪̼͚̻ͫͫͮ̈́I̵͓̭̤̬͇ͫͤ̽͊̋̉̃T̖̞ͯͩ̉̊ͫ̇ͭ̏̅̕͜H̴̳̘̰͍̘͚̜͚ͩͣͦͭ͘͟ͅU̻̣̳̣̝̻ͥ̒̂ͬ̑̄͢R̂̓͗̚͏͎͈͈̥̫̼T̡͔͇̫̹̦̽̋̊̇̎ͬ͛͟S̴͚̜̩ͣ͗̏P̙̙̖̩̓͋̽̒L̵̵͖̞̘͔̾̓ͦ͒ͦ̍̂Ȅ͔̗͎͊͊A͓͙̝̝̼ͮ͘ͅS̪̭̪̜̯̎ͮE̡̧̤̼͖̗̩͙͍̳̔͂̈͂̇ͯ̿̊̚S͒ͬ̚͏̢̺ͅT̃̔͌ͩ̾͆̄͋̾͏̵͓͓̪̝̺Ơ̶̧͉͚̮ͭͪ̄P̛̰ͧͥ̔̉͝͝P͉̦̱̠͖ͮͩͦL̨̬̜̼̎́͠Ė̖͖͖͖̂͘͠Ā͚̦̞̳̤ͨ͐̈̓̆̿̎̕Ş̹̪̻̙̤̼̭̆ͮẺ̛̤͙̞͍̙̝̭͙̆̇͐̀̾̔͂͜P̾̑̀̐͞҉͍̥͔̜̩̼̹L̴̞͚̯͖̟̝̙̓̓E̴̗͖͇̜̮̖͂̄̋ͯ̾̆ͯ͒͢͟A̷̖̲̙ͧͯͣ̐ͦ́ͩͩ͠͠S̻̝ͮ́̍͜E̱̠̳̣͖̬̻̦͊ͯ͑͌ͨͥ͝S̷̥̖͇̤̗̳̖̺̞͒̇ͣ͟Ṯ̛͇̩̍ͯ̊ͣͅO͆ͩ́͒ͨ͏͍̲̭̖̘͚̕͢P̨̱̭͎̺̈̌͑͟I̵̡͕̭̜̪̹ͨ̋ͣȚ̬͈̲͓̻̰ͩͯͨ̋̏̏̃ͫS̥͓̮̊̊T͔͕͍͖ͩ̉ͦ̕O̦̳̍ͤ̿͗̉̕Ǫ̷̐͒̓ͪ͏̩̠͎̫͙̼Ṃ̝̳͇͕̣͎̔ͦ͛̔̊ͧ͘ͅU̧̠̟̟̲̘̲̰̯͌ͣ̃̓̽ͦ̿̋͝Ç̭̬̲̖̂͛ͥ͐H̨̓͌̋̎̒͏̟̳̮̞̙̣Ǐ̵͓͔̻̦̹̳ͤͦ͋͑͘͟C̴͎͓̠̬̥̟̓ͥ͌̍͌͊͑͠A̢̤̮͖̬̯͖̩͂̏̊̃͘̕Ň̵̵͙̙͈̹͙̮͙̏ͤ'̴̾͂̓͐͌̏͏͎̮͔͚̺T̶̸̫͕͎̰͍͇͔̿̓͌D̡̩͕̰̥̯̼̾͑͒̏͡ͅŌ͎͖̦̮̠͚̳̟̏́͟Tͮ̔͗̐͒ͫ̑̆̚͟͏̡͎̘̥̲͇H̷̻̥̖̦̯͇͙͊̍̏ͤ̊ͧ̐̚̕I̷̶͇̗͎̗͍͌ͪS͊̂̾ͣͭͯ͐ͦ̒҉̞̼͓͡I̧͍̦̼̭͕ͯͭ͌ͨ̄̇̕C̯͓͉̱̠͌ͧ͞Å̉ͬ͗ͣ̒ͦ͋̚͏̮̙̜̳̩̖̦Ṉ̴̭̼̘̬̭̻̫ͮ̅̄ͦ̃ͭ'̘͔̪̣̀ͦ̄͟T̛̟̭̗̣̪́͌ͩ̄ͨ̽ͭ̔̒̕D͚̯͖͖̙́ͦ̌̈̿̋̊ͫ͟O̪̟̩͍̞̠͚ͬ̎͋̑̔̑̋͘Ṯ͉͛ͮḨ̦ͯ̄ͣͥ̔̊̓͜I̿̓͢҉̜̮͉̺S͕͇͚̦ͦͬ̏ͥ̈̇P̤͖̪̤̣̤̩ͥ͆͋͘͢L̸̠̝͕̖ͦͪ͡͠Ë̵̼̙̞́̋ͧ̔͂̿͞A̧̫͎͇̍ͤͦͫͥ͛S̳͇̩͔͙̪ͧͨ̿̿ͅEͤ̃̃ͤ̕҉͏̲͕̣** _

The machine spun to another mask, the thinner one now. **"Do. You. Still. Blame. Yourself. For. Her. Death?"** It spoke, slowing its voice down until it sounded almost exactly like the man’s.

_**Į̤̻̤͉̫̱̭̪̠̳̫̰̗̗̬͍̳͙̝̀̑̎̐ͣ͢C̴͚̬̟͙͇̣̞̪̮ͣ̄̋͛͜A̡̧̫̪̘̻͙̳͈̼̳͈̱͖͈̠̫̘̥̫͒ͫ̽̽̑̅͆̄̇̓͋ͬ̽ͣ̉̏̆̓͠͡N̶̝͉̺̙̞̹̝̤̠̫̎̆̿̄ͭ̔ͥ̅ͯ̎ͣ̈́ͣ̅̚͠'̛̥̥̘̜̼̣̫̮͎̜͔̹͎̩̳̄̎̄͛̋̊͗ͥ͝͝T̛͙̙͙̣̻̼̟̠̪̮̠͍̏̓̔͛͆̑̓̚̕͢͜S̲̤̣̜̭͇͍͖̻̩̺̜̬̠͎ͮͤ̅͒̓͑͘͢͡ͅP̨̬̥̦̠̭̤͈̹̤͔̳̫̦̳̲͕̳̗ͨ̑ͯ͊̆ͣ͝͝E̸̲̫͈͚̻͍̰͙̪͚̱̙̳͖͚͛̍͆̈́̈̈͐͗̿ͨͪ͋͆̓̈̃ͭ͌̍͡A̾̋̐ͫ̌̿͊̅͏̴̴̮̰͙͚̣͍͢͠K͔͔̦̦̝͉̠̬͔̭ͥͣ̄̌ͪ̃̕͞Iͮ͆ͦ̓̆̌̈́̓̓̾ͧ̔̈́̕͟҉̝͔͉̜͠ͅT̵̢̬̺͕͕̞ͭͣͯͦͨ͂ͣͣͨͨͤ͂͂͒͋͝H̢̲͓̞͎̳̻͇̯̱͙͙̫̫̰̘̩͙̟̅̿̎̅ͅU͕̲̖͖̘̗̣͚̽̒ͯ͑̋̀̿̐͂ͮ͆ͮ̇͗̿ͨͥͦ̕͡R̔ͥͩͮͨ̃̓́̑͗̀͂̋ͣͫ̐ͤ̚҉̹̲̥͓͓̯̜̦̺̦͙̙̰ͅT̸̪̥̰̜ͮͧͨ̑ͦͬ͠͞Sͧ͐̓ͬͨ̾͊̌̎ͤ̃̽̄͏̸̫͚̪̣͙̥̱̝͇̭̩͕͎͞S͌͑ͮͦͥ̋͗̈́̚͜҉̸̖̺̥͈͎̠̳̱͉̳͇̗͎͚͇̭̕͢O̼̠̝̹̞̜͙̞͔̥̹ͮ̎̈́͗́͗ͥ̎̈̇ͤͯ̂ͤ͗̕M̓̒ͣ̌͆̀ͣ̍͂̋̈҉̧̢̻̼̻͝Ų̶̻͎̖͖̗̠̯̭̞̖̰̹̖͑̿ͧ̿ͨ̈͌͘͡Ĉ̡̡̠̜̪̩̻̪̺̘͚̭͔̤͉̋ͦ͌ͥ̃̐͊ͬ̈̆͑̽̊H̸̷̡̧͎̩͙̰̟͙͇͖̘͎̲͈͉͈͉͔̏̃ͨͦ̓̂ͪ̃̏͒͂ͅP̶̶͈͔͙͓̟̅͒̊ͫL̵̩̣̹̰̗̤̙̪̋ͮ̈͐̈́̓̌͊̚͘E̶̼͔̟͕̟͍͚̾̋̇̐̈ͯͬ̒̽͛̌ͧͥ̓̈ͦ͠Ä͛̽͑̾͏҉̺̰̻͈̘̲̮͚̦̫͓̲͚͟S͉͓͖̼̹̪̞̦͈̩̼͙̩̐ͪͨ̈͊̄̑͘͞Ȅ̶̝̰̻̯̫̙̠̝̪̗̣̬̻̖̘̟ͯ̽̂ͩ̿͋ͅͅS̷̵͖̟̥̣̩̞͓͖̩̼͚̞̥͈̫ͥ̋̽̑̀͘͜T̵̗̤̰̳̬͚̮̘ͨ̄ͨ̂͛ͧ̆͂͂̊ͫͭ͌̽͛̂̒̒͟ͅŐ̑̓ͣ͒ͣ͑͂ͮ̿̔ͦ̇͂ͩ̚̚͏̡̰̦̣̰̦̩̭̼̙̱̖͙͡P̧̢̨̞̘͓̪̬̩̤̲̝̜̯̽́́ͦ̐͆ͥ̿ͥ̉̋̇͝I̢̡̥͍͍͉̟̫͖͉̳̮̰͙͚͈̺͓̝̺͐̔ͮͯ͘͘ͅT̷̳̰̳͓̊̇ͣHͬͭ̾̌̀́ͬͦ̋̍͗͛ͬ̿̚͏͖̱̰̜̜̺̼͕̤͕̼͎̟͚͝͞Ű̸̴̧̨̬͙̲͓̗̲͓͒̅̄̓ͨ͆̓͢R̨͔̺̤̹̘̖͎̞͓̬̂̓̋͗͑ͬͭ̍ͨ͒̎͋̓͌ͤ̚͘T̵̴̙̭̭̖̣͍͇͙̦̟͔͉̝͎̖̝̹ͤ͛ͤͯ̎̃͘S̬̺͈͇̳͉̹̘̯͎̬̟̾ͤ͑ͭͦ͒̍ͮ̓̓̇̕ͅͅI̧̢̡͓̳͙͉̺̺̠͈͙͒̑̍̽ͩ̿̈́̇T̷̶̢̗̟̝̹̖̰̗̩̪̼̥̲͔̫͇̮̮͍͔͐̅̄̀Ḥ͔̯͉̭͎̣ͦͮ̎̄̉ͥ͡͡ͅU̦̦͈͇̝̫̫̜͙̳͎̜͔͐ͭ͗͑̂̕͡Ȑ̨̧̽͋̋̈͌ͯͪ͏̮̪̼̪̩͕͓̬̩̹̬͉̳͉͇͓̠̩T̷̨̒̓̇̉̊̉͏͎͓̩̳̭͔̟͓̘̤̖͞S̵͔̰̼̻͕͇̭̲̮̟̫̟̻̜̾̊ͫ̿͑̐̉͢͡P̢̼̘͔̞̻̝͈̻̍̒ͩͨͥͤ̆͒͂̏͊͛͜L̡̘̤̙̻̮̞̹̙̞͈̝̝̼̝͈̈ͤ͒ͮ͆ͦͪ͜Ȩ̵̶̢̖͓̞̜̝̞̗͙̙͚͈̠͉͔̺̟͚͛ͪͦ͑̉ͮ̐̇̂ͮͩ̄̑̽ͣͭ́A̡̮̗̮̘̻̝̘͚͍͍̼̰̥ͨ̍̇ͮ̎͂͐̎̍̿̚̚͘͢͞Sͭ̀ͪͥͣ̍͆͏͝҉̥̞̩͇Ë͎̤͎̮̗̹̝́̉ͤ̿͌̈̕N̴̨̈́ͫ̒̋̿ͦͯͮ͂ͬͣͮͯ́͑͐̚͞͞҉̬̞̦̣̖̘͕̪Ȏ̧̙̣͎͓̜̿̎ͫ͂͗͋͊͆̃͊ͦ̃͐͋̇̆͠͝M͆̿͂ͮ͆̀͒̚͏̟̻͕̯̪̥̰͇̮̼̩͚̼͔̣͎̫̯O̸̷̧̲͙̠ͮ̆̆̄͊ͨ͋͋ͧ͗́́ͫ͝ͅͅR̢̜͓̖̖͚͔̻̜̙̪̮̜̅̉͛ͨͪͧ̋ͣ̾ͮ̔ͤ̈͂͘͠͞E̽́̿̿ͥ̐̉̾ͩ͛́͐͏̵̧̛̺̞̹̩̪͕̣̯͔̬̖̖̞̣̺͈͔͍ͅN̸̵̠͍̖̭̦̖̜͓̰͈̲͖͊͊̆ͣͣ̓̀̅̈́̈́̓̓ͮͮ̆ͯͫͧO̷͕͈̰̺͔̤͖̫͕̣̙̰͇̠̯ͭ̑̈́͗̓̉ͦ̐̕̕͢M̸̶̫͇͈͖̖͇̠͙̔̿̿̿ͩ͆͐̌͋̒̉͊͌̉̌̋̌̎͋͘̕͟Ơ̵̶͗̈̊̉͟҉̹̙̥͖R̛̛̘̱̙̦̹͈͓̫͓̮̻͍͕̝̰̪͇͛̔̃ͧ̌͒̋̆̆ͦͩȨ̡̤͇͕͍͕͈̖͉̗̪̫̬̦͗̌ͣͤ̕͘͘ͅN̡͈̪̪̘͍̘̹̙͓̥̦̫̘̙̠̳͑ͧ͋̂ͯͤ̋ͫ͛ͪ͛̐͌͒ͩͣ͟͞O͇͓͇͔͚̩̠͖̬͛̑͋ͫ̄̐ͯ͌ͥ̉̋ͪ͟M̶͔̜̦̖̠̘̺̮̻̪̻̭̦̙͓̼̗͉̮̀̋̀ͮO̙̯̖͇͓͔͔͍̫̤͙̼͙̙̭ͫ͋̔͑̎̀͊̑͒̑͘͝͝ͅͅR͉̻̰̺͍̠͈̙̥͇̗͈̫̠͍̪ͮ͋ͪ̀͛͆̀ͬͤͤͭ̆͗̔̈̊̿͜͠͝E̶̸̛̱̼͈͍͎ͥͩͭ̃͂̕N̩͇̘͕̫̼͚̦̥͔̬̲̉ͮ̏́ͣ̾̔̑͌̕̕͠Ỏ̸̠̹̭̦͕̻͙̥̙̭̯̠̟̱̰͎͒̾̃ͩ̓̕͟ͅM̬̭̩̘̻̹̘͗͂ͣ͐͝O̶̘̠̰̞̜͒͒ͮͬ͆̏͘R̶͎̠̦͉͈̪̜͕̺͚̫̞ͣ́͆͐́̔̾ͫͫ͗ͩ̒́̀̂ͪ̚Ȅ̹͈͎̲͇̥̺̯͙̘̰̞̱̬ͩͥ͋̆̀ͬ̈̂ͯ͗̇͛̃̇͜͝͝͝Ņ̷̖̼̗̩̟̤͇̳̳̹̪͔̯̲́́́ͣ̎̓̑ͯ̓̒͋Ŏ͔͍̘̖͉͇͕̱̟͚̬̻́͆̓̏ͤ͒͢ͅM̷̸͇̻͖̜͒̏́̊̓ͨͤ̋ͦͮͯ̏̚͝Ỏ̴̷̷̡̩̮̳̫̤̰͈͈ͭ̽́̃Ŗ̴ͤ̒̂͛̓ͧ͌̅҉̹̩͍͔͚̥̥̼͎̼E̠̳̤̹͔ͩͩͥ̈́͛̂̎͛͘͜** _

**“Open response enabled.”**

_"Pl-easestopIcan'ttakethisanymore- I cannot do this-I cannot-I-I-I-I-I-I---!"_

The man was suddenly silenced.

**"All response forms have been disabled."**

The pain promptly stopped. It sent such a whiplash of relief to the man, that he nearly started crying again. Thank god this thing gave up, he wasn’t sure if he could stand that any longer.

After a long silence had passed, a song began playing. It felt like the man’s heart stopped once he heard it. He knew this song very well. He wished he hadn’t.

 **"You used to listen to this when you served in the Gulf War.”** The machine spoke up. **“You and your friend, Michael Corman.”**

It rotated to the first mask. **“You blame yourself on his death, too."** It then swiftly rotated to the scary mask. **“Why do you feel like it's something you could have prevented at all?"**

This was slightly easier to answer for the man. _"I saw him fall, and I didn't stop running from them…”_ He paused, the memory of the event surfacing to his mind, all too real. _“He was my friend, and I let him die."_

**"Would he have stopped running for you?"**

_“Yes.”_ His response was immediate, solemn.

The unused masks at the machine’s side nodded, as if acknowledging the compliance of the man. **"Why would you want to believe he would have?"**

That was a strange question. He tried to think of a reasonable response.

_“...I know he would have.”_

**"You're idealizing him. You want to feel guilty. You find it comforting. Realistically, you feel he wouldn't."**

That felt like an accusation. _"That's a lie."_ The man said sternly.

The Interviewer slowly rotated then to the first mask. **"You're getting nervous. You know he wouldn't have."**

He was getting angry. Who did this Interviewer think it was? _"You didn't know him. You have no right to say that!"_

**"I can feel it in your voice."**

That was the last straw.

 _"What gives you the right to judge m-me?! To think you know how I feel!"_ The man was so frustrated that his voice began to glitch again.

_"You think you understand people? You think you know what it's like to be a p-p-person, and you know how we work-- well, you're wrong--..!" His voice distorted and went down in pitch, only to come back up, just as angry. Static started to corrupt his voice, the speakers unable to withstand the volume the man used. ”You don’t know what it’s like to lose your daughter, I did what was right for my country, and I try to live like an honest man supportmywifeandjustmakeitthroughthedayandIlovemyhome AND YOU CAN’T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!”_

The Interviewer snapped to a new, terrifying mask; much worse than the last one. It appeared to be two pain-stricken faces crushed together, with a large hole in the middle. The hole combined an eye socket from each face into one, gaping hole. It spoke with a disturbingly low pitched voice.

 _ **"SHUT UP."**_ It yelled at the man, finally showing some sort of irritation. **"JUST… SHUT UP."** The sight of the new mask made the man too scared to speak.

 **"I HATE YOU.”** It began slowly. **“I HATE YOU FOR THINKING THAT LIFE IS AN END THAT CORRESPONDS WITH YOUR ASPIRATIONS AND WISHES. I HATE YOU FOR THINKING YOU'RE UNIQUE. I HATE YOU FOR THINKING YOU'RE THE SUBSTANTIAL PURPOSE IN THE WORLD. I HATE YOU FOR REMINDING ME OF WHAT I USED TO BE."**

**"WE ALL DIED. WE WERE ALL SENT HERE. WE ALL SURRENDER THE DREAMS WE HAD MADE IN LIFE. AND WE ALL DID WHAT WAS REQUIRED TO SUBSTAND."**

**"YOU WILL WAIT HERE UNTIL YOU NO LONGER REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE, UNTIL YOU ARE NO LONGER SANE ENOUGH TO DISTINGUISH THE IMMISCIBLE SECONDS, AND THE SECONDS FROM ETERNITY. AND THEN THEY WILL REMOLD YOU. AND THEN YOU WILL BE ME."**

The machine spun to the first mask without missing a beat. **"Your job had been decided."** It concluded calmly.

Now that the terrifying mask was out of the way, the man found the strength to protest. Especially due to the last few sentences.

 _"PleaseId-d-don'twantthejob-Iwanttole-e-eave-!"_ The speakers he spoke from were blown, meaningless static pouring out in waves. Pleading, begging, but unable to form anything coherent.

The machine’s tone was almost cheerful as it responded:

**"Goodbye!"**

* * *

 The silence was deafening. The Interviewer had left a long time ago.

...Hadn’t it?

The man couldn’t remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How long has it been?

Days? Weeks? Months? It wasn’t as if he had any method of keeping time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The man didn’t have anything to occupy his time either. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak.

He could only wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 **"Preliminary waiting period complete."** A voice echoed from the ceiling. If he could, the man would have jumped at the sudden noise.

A panel on the floor in front of the man opened, and The Interviewer was raised on a platform until it reached the height it had during the interview. The first mask was facing the man. Thankfully.

 **“Hello again. This is the secondary interview.”** As usual, this mask spoke in short sentences. **“The duration of your waiting period will either be extended or shortened, in accordance with your answers and your behavior.”**

The Interviewer rotated to the female mask. **“Your monitor has been repaired so that responses are once again clear. Open response has been enabled. Please use this privilege responsibly.”** It then spun to the first mask again. **“Now, let’s begin.”**

The man felt he had no choice than to comply, then.

After a pause, the machine spoke.

**“What… is your name?”**

The man was surprised. What a simple question! It was--

…

...Wait, why couldn’t he…?

**“Please answer the question.”**

The man was beginning to panic. _“I… I can’t remember.”_

The Interviewer continued, **“What… is your job?”**

...He didn’t know. What was wrong with him? What was going on?

 _“I don’t... remember that, either.”_ His voice was shaking. _“Y-You’re supposed to give me a job, right?”_ That much he could recall.

**“Correct. And if you answer this last question correctly, you may leave this place, and begin working at your new job.”**

That… didn’t sound like a good thing.

Nevertheless, The Interviewer asked the final question.

**“Who… is Erica Moore?”**

This confused the man. Hadn’t they talked about her already? She was…

 _“I… think I had said she was my daughter… right?”_ The man asked tentatively.

The machine stayed silent; expecting a real answer, it seemed.

The man went on, _“But I don’t recall who she is. I don’t even know what she looks like. But she had died, I think. And… I was sad about that…”_ He was struggling to come up with even the events during the last interview. Something was terribly wrong.

 **“Congratulations.”** The Interviewer interrupted the man’s pondering. **“It has been decided that your waiting time will be removed entirely, and you will be starting your job, effective immediately.”**

The man was distraught. Not only was he still incredibly confused, but this was all too sudden! What job would this be, he couldn’t even move!

_“Wait! What is this job? What am I supposed to do?!”_

**“Your job is to create an environment using the tools we will provide for you. With this environment, you will teach a select human being the lesson you have learned here. You will teach this lesson in a story that we will provide for you. And you will teach it in the way that we tell you to.** ” It spoke matter-of-factly. Even the explanation was as vague as this whole scenario, the man thought.

Suddenly, something below the man began to hum: a panel, presumably. It started to lower whatever device the man resided in down below the floor, into a void so dark he could not make out whether it was a room or a chasm.

 **“One more thing.”** The machine added. **“Your new name is The Narrator. Enjoy your new job. We will check up on your progress shortly.”**

That was the last thing the man heard before he was engulfed in black.

* * *

  _My name is The Narrator. This is what is left of my story._

_I have no memory of my past life, and this is all I remember. I don't even remember who the people I mention are in the interview._

_I am writing this all down so that I do not forget. So that "They" won't make me forget... what had happened to me... and why I am here._

_After I was assigned my name and job, I was stuck following orders. Suffice to say, I was not stuck in whatever machine I had been in before. I do not know if this is my original body, because it looks rather… unnatural. Well, anyway._

_So, I made a game. I was given an innocent stranger and I was assigned to teach him a very difficult lesson. I couldn't do otherwise. I couldn’t rebel. I wasn't permitted to._

_I never hated Stanley. I really do wish for him to be free. But no, I cannot let that happen. I cannot go against my assignment. I can't do that because I'll get fired, or worse. I don't even know what would happen if it came to that. My main fear is that..._

_...they'll take something else away from me._

_My memories... I can't afford to lose any more. I can barely remember anything after the game restarts. "They" put that there, so that I wouldn't plan anything._

The Narrator looked up from his notebook at his computer monitor. It seemed Stanley was still doing… whatever he did in the broom closet. Typical.

The Narrator was currently residing in his recording room, located directly above the Office he had created. The room contained a desk, a chair, a microphone, the script that contained the Story, and the computer that he used to control the game. After watching to make sure that Stanley was not making any sudden movements, The Narrator continued to write.

_Whoever "They" are, The Interviewer didn't say. The Interviewer said it was a pointless question to ask. It never responded differently whenever I asked again. Which is leading me to believe that those are the people who orchestrated this, the people in charge. My bosses, I suppose._

The Narrator heard a noise like a door opening. He glanced up at his computer screen again. It seemed that Stanley had left the broom closet, and was heading towards the staircase.

The Narrator sighed. Back to work.

He spoke into the microphone, not even needing to look at this script to know his lines. _"Coming to a staircase, Stanley went upstairs to his boss's office."_

_Dammit, Stanley. I'm doing something important here. If only I could tell you. If only you could help me. But no, I would be penalized, and that would also be selfish of me. Stanley did nothing, and I was forced to pull him away from his life, just to sustain my new one._

_If this is the afterlife, then I'm in my own personal Hell. What did I do to deserve this?_

…

The Narrator realized after a minute of silence that he had forgotten to say his line. He looked up, and Stanley was staring back through the camera feed.

The Narrator scrambled to turn on the microphone again. _"Oh-- um, sorry, Stanley. I was caught up in my thoughts there for a moment. Let's continue the story."_

Stanley looked at the ceiling with interest. What was so important that caused The Narrator to screw up? Stanley sat down on the spot he stood and continued looking up.

 _"Ahem. Where were we, oh here--"_ The Narrator glanced up from his script when he heard Stanley sit down. _"Uh, Stanley, what are you doing? Don't you want to get on with the story?"_

Stanley shook his head.

_"Well, what the heck do you want, then?"_

Stanley just tilted his head, like a curious puppy.

 _"What? What is that supposed to… oh."_ The Narrator said. _"You're wondering what I was thinking back there?"_

Stanley nodded. Whatever The Narrator had to say would probably be more entertaining than the rest of the game, anyway.

 _"Well if you must know, I was..."_ The Narrator trailed off. What was he supposed to say now? He made the mistake of agreeing to tell Stanley of his thoughts, and now he had no clue on what to do.

 _"...I-I was..."_ The Narrator stuttered.

Stanley sat there expectantly, waiting for an answer. Oh, The Narrator really screwed up now. Now, Stanley was interested. He couldn't back out now.

The Narrator decided he had to lie. _"...I was… um, thinking about... why... I don't remember much about past restarts..."_

Okay, that was a half-lie.

Stanley narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. The Narrator wouldn't have taken such a long time to speak if he wasn't lying. Stanley crossed his arms.

_"W-what? You don't believe me?"_

Stanley nodded.

The Narrator sighed. _"Out of all the times for you to become smart, why do you have to do it now... okay, fine. You got me. I wasn't really thinking about that."_

Stanley smiled, knowing that he was right.

_"But I'm not going to tell you."_

Stanley glared at the camera.

_"I'm sorry. It's for the best. Now, can we please go back to the story? Please?"_

Stanley shook his head again.

Dammit, why is he so stubborn? _"Stanley, please, just enter the damn code into the keypad and let's move on.”_

Stanley stayed put. He was not going to move from his spot.

The Narrator was starting to get annoyed. _"Stanley, I'm serious. Get over it, and just go through the rest of the story. Now."_

Stanley still wouldn't budge.

This now angered The Narrator.

 _"STANLEY!"_ The Narrator yelled, making Stanley jump. _"Wha- why the hell do you want to know so badly of my thoughts? When have you ever cared about that?!"_

Stanley cringed at The Narrator’s tone, but continued sitting on the floor.

That's it.

 _"Okay, so you want to know what my thoughts are? Fine, I'll tell you. It's_ your _funeral."_ The Narrator muttered the last part, but Stanley heard it clearly. Stanley was now scared. Maybe he shouldn't have provoked The Narrator. But it was too late for that now.

_"I was thinking of-"_

**{*BEEP BEEP*}**

The Narrator was interrupted by a loud alarm that startled both Stanley and The Narrator. Before they knew it, Stanley's vision had filled with the loading screen, while The Narrator stared blankly at his computer monitor, mind suddenly and completely empty.

He slumped a little in his chair. He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He couldn't think. His eyes were vacant. He looked almost dead.

After thirty minutes, he snapped out of it, mind now clear of any recent activity.

'What just happened?' The Narrator thought. 'Did the game restart?'

He noticed that his computer was displaying the loading screen. That explains that. '...Oh, well, I better get ready to say my lines...'

The Narrator saw a few papers on the floor. Curiously, he picked them up and skimmed them. 'Seems like a bunch of nonsense...’ He concluded. Without batting an eye, he threw the papers into a nearby trash can, and turned to the microphone to begin the story.


End file.
